Memento Mori
by MorningPerson
Summary: The Harry that returns to Hogwarts after the battle in the Department of Mysteries is not the same one as the Harry who left. Dark! Harry. Rated Mature for extreme violence and slight adult themes in future chapters.
1. War and Tombs

******Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, I'd live in a much nicer house than I currently do. Also, I'd probably have had a more exciting vacation this Christmas.

**Headmaster's Office**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

**Evening of 4th June 1996**

"Albus Dumbledore. Have you any idea the damage you've caused?" The words, delivered in a flat, chilling tone entirely foreign to the young man behind him, sent shivers down Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Grand Sorcerer, Order of Merlin, 1st Class, etc.'s spine. Turning slowly to face Harry Potter, he was struck first by the calm, collected posture of the young man – boy, really – who had merely minutes ago faced Lord Voldemort. It was a position Dumbledore recognized from Auror training manuals, one that allowed its user to draw his wand or dodge an incoming spell in a split second, one that minimized reaction time – One that should have been absent from Harry Potter's repertoire.

He was struck second by the disgust and hatred warring for the premier position in Harry's eyes. Those emerald orbs, usually so open and friendly, were now narrowed in a gaze that threatened to strip the flesh from Dumbledore's bones.

"I beg your pardon, Harry?" The Headmaster's grandfatherly tone concealed his growing unease.

"I said, have you an idea the damage you've caused, directly and indirectly, by refusing to accept the ramifications of your precious Prophecy? Can you conceive of the suffering at your feet, the blood on your hands, present and future?"

"I confess to an uncomfortable degree of puzzlement, Harry. I do not entirely catch your drift, and the style you've adopted seems more in character with the young Miss Granger than yourself."

"No, I don't suppose you'd understand at first, would you? But you will by the end, I believe." And with those cryptic words, Harry crossed to a cabinet and pulled out the Pensieve Dumbledore kept there. Shocked by the breach of courtesy, Dumbledore watched numbly as his student spun a silvery thread of memory from his temple, placing it in the stone basin. "If you'd be so kind, _Professor_?" Harry almost spat the title at Dumbledore, as though he hated giving the man any form of respect. Dumbledore flicked his eyes between the Pensieve and the coldly furious young man beyond it… the Headmaster could almost swear he saw ice crystals on the floor around Harry's booted feet. _Boots?_ He thought inanely. _He wasn't wearing boots in the Ministry, I'm sure of it._ Eventually, he nodded decisively and bent down to examine the memory.

_The world was burning. Green flames, witchfire, Dumbledore suspected, advanced down a corridor in the Ministry – He thought he recognized the Auror Corps' headquarters – setting the very stone aflame. More magical infernos burned inside the offices, the doorways limned in the hellish light. At the end of the corridor, a squad of grim-faced Aurors guarded a group of Ministry workers trying desperately to pierce the anti-Apparition wards the attackers had set up. Turning, Dumbledore got his first look at those same attacking forces._

_There, striding down the Ministry hallway without a care in the world, was Lord Voldemort. His snakelike visage was twisted into a cruel sneer and the wand in his hand sent spell after spell into the backs of fleeing civilians. Here and there, pockets of Auror robes signified resistance, but groups of Death Eaters swarmed over and around them like a great river sweeping away pebbles. The constant spellfire gave Voldemort's inhuman features an unholy cast, as though he'd left what little humanity remained to him behind and traded it for demonic power._

_Which, judging by the ease with which he despatched target after target, might not be far from the the last of the Aurors protecting the cursebreakers fell, his spine crushed to powder, a Death Eater appeared at Voldemort's elbow._

"_My Lord." A short bow, and the man straightened back up, smiling thinly beneath his turned, a triumphant smirk on his face._

"_Ah, Lucius. How goes the fight?"_

"_The Ministry is yours, Lord, and with it Britain."_

_Dumbledore missed Voldemort's reply, so shocked was he. How had Voldemort defeated the massed forces of the Ministry and the Order?_

"_There is, however, one slight problem." The Death Eater – Lucius Malfoy, Dumbledore supposed – said with a small frown._

"_Lucius, not even the return of that fool Dumbledore could spoil my mood today. What is it?"_

"_You won't get to enjoy your victory long." And with that, Malfoy removed his mask just as the last of the Polyjuice faded, the sneering face of the Pureblood lord replaced by the haunted, war-weary features of Harry Potter. He brought up his wand and said quietly, almost sadly, "Avada Kedavra." Lord Voldemort fell to the floor, a look of surprise frozen on his reptilian turned and touched a Portkey hanging from his neck. The Boy-Who-Lived vanished just as the first Death Eater curse reached his position._

_Abrubtly, the scene shifted. No longer was the Ministry burning around Dumbledore. Instead, he stood in a tomb, observing the shrouded bodies of three people. The bodies lay on marble slabs in a dark room, with corridors – tunnels? Dumbledore had no idea where this scene was taking place. – branching off in all directions. Harry Potter flashed into existence near the middle slab. He fell to his knees, head bowed, eyes closed. His voice was barely a whisper, but Dumbledore caught the words even so._

"_It's not over. Voldemort's gone, but so's everyone else. So are you, so are they, so's everyone else here. I'm sick, Gin, sick in mind and body. I failed. Everything I've ever cared for, everyone I've ever loved…_

"_No excuses. If I'd trained harder, if the DA'd had some real discipline the last two years, if I'd just been there for you all…" A single sob, shockingly loud in the quiet grave._

"_Damn him, Gin. Voldemort killed you, and our family, and all the others, but he let it happen. Dumbledore and his damned "Greater Good," his precious sentimentality, his cursed unshakable belief in his own omniscience let him. We wasted six years, Gin. In three I learned enough to fight Voldemort to a standstill. In six I could have killed him before you died. I could have saved everyone. I'd do anything to have you hear, love. I'd give anything. Anything." More sobs. Dumbledore's face bore an expression of horror as he realized just what his insistence that Harry Potter have a normal childhood had done. Minerva had been right after all. Raised by Muggles, left to his own devices at Hogwarts,left unprepared for his destiny… Dumbledore had ignored the Prophecy he'd put so much faith in._

"_We hear you, young one…" Harry's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as his wand rose to point in the direction of the sound._

"_We hear the pain, we see the anguish, we feel the loss…" Both Dumbledore and Harry spun in a different direction, fear evident on both their faces._

"_We remember the future and predict the past. We guess at the present and discover the last."_

"_Last of what?" Harry demanded, his wand now sending a beam of light into the pressing darkness._

"_The last cause in the chain. The vergence between Fate and accident. We can help you." From the black tunnel to Harry's right, three black-robed figures walked. They halted on the opposite side of the marble slabs, the middle one resting a gloved hand on the smooth stone._

"_Anything for them." Harry whispered, gripping his wand tightly._

"_Good." And with that, the three ominous figures each raised a hand, their robes falling back to reveal gleaming white bone beneath the gloves. A wave of indescribably power flowed from them, and Dumbledore was ejected from the Pensieve._

He came to on the floor, while Harry perched on his desk and regarded him with a cold expression. Dumbledore licked his dry lips, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"What… what…" He gave up. The images flying through his mind were too incredible for words.

"That is the question, isn't it? What happened, and why, and when, and where. All the usual. Allow me to start from the begginning of my time in this reality. It won't take long, as I arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Odd, really… I told the Darkness I wanted to appear in first year."

"The Darkness?"

"All in good time, _Professor_, all in good time. Now, consider. The three skeletons in my closet… tomb, rather, were not quite normal. They sent me back to try again. You see, I couldn't live with myself in that reality. You didn't see the full extend of the war," _but I did_, said the icy emerald eyes, "so you can't fully appreciate the level of carnage you were indirectly responsible for. Hogwarts attacked, all the remaining students dead, – All of them, Dumbledore, hundreds of children tortured and killed – the Muggles dying in their tens of thousands, Dementors loose, vampires feeding on the streets of Hogsmeade, Death Eaters parading in full daylight across the ruins of the castle… You saw the tomb memory." Dumbledore nodded dumbly.

"They offered me a way out. A way to fix all my mistakes, and all of yours besides. A way to ensure that the deaths that have already happened are not followed by more. I took it.

"That's why and how I'm here. You've seen the where, and the when is now. Know that I _will not_ tolerate interference from you or your Order in this. My friends will not die this time around, but my enemies, whoever they may be, will.

"That I promise you."


	2. For Remembrance Version 2

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, you'd all know it.

**Author's Note: **I've always been somewhat dissatisfied with how Memento Mori translated from my head to the printed... make that the typed page. This is the second try - I think you'll enjoy it much more. I certainly do.

What were the first two chapters have seen considerable modifications, while the others remain largely the same. I've collected all of them into one chapter, because it was frankly ridiculous how short they all were on their own. More will follow, of a length and quality comparable to this.

**Headmaster's Office  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Hogsmeade, Scotland  
**

There was something different about Harry Potter.

Expected, this - a night as shocking, as intense, as dangerous as the one that he had just survived could be expected to leave its mark. As the Portkey deposited the the boy in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office, the owner of that office took a moment to consider what he would say to ensure that a desire for vengeance, or perhaps worse a thirst for the power to achieve it, did not infect his young charge. Opening his mouth, he was somewhat surprised to be preempted by Harry. Then the words registered properly, and surprise was replaced by shock and a creeping sensation of dread that sent shivers down the old man's spine.

"Albus Dumbledore. Have you any idea the damage you've caused?" The words were delivered in a flat, almost disinterested tone entirely at odds with their content. Turning slowly to face Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore was struck first by the calm, collected posture of the young man – boy, really – who had merely minutes ago faced Lord Voldemort. That a fifth-year student should be almost unaffected by an experience the mere thought of which caused veteran Aurors to cower was unusual, to say the least, even before considering that his closest friends were lying injured in St. Mungo's even now and that his godfather had died before his very eyes. He was struck second by the disgust and hatred warring for the premier position in Harry's eyes. Those emerald orbs, usually so open and friendly, were now narrowed in a gaze that threatened to strip the flesh from Dumbledore's bones.

"I beg your pardon, Harry?" The Headmaster's grandfatherly tone concealed his growing unease.

"I said, have you an idea the damage you've caused, directly and indirectly, by refusing to accept the ramifications of your precious Prophecy? Can you conceive of the suffering at your feet, the blood on your hands, present and future?"

"I confess to an uncomfortable degree of puzzlement, Harry. I do not entirely catch your drift, and the style you've adopted seems more in character with the young Miss Granger than yourself."

"No, I don't suppose you'd understand at first, would you? But you will by the end, I believe." And with those cryptic words, Harry crossed to a cabinet and pulled out the Pensieve Dumbledore kept there. Shocked by the breach of courtesy, Dumbledore watched numbly as his student spun a silvery thread of memory from his temple, placing it in the stone basin. "If you'd be so kind, _Professor_?" Harry almost spat the title at Dumbledore, as though he hated giving the man any form of respect. Dumbledore flicked his eyes between the Pensieve and the coldly furious young man beyond it… the Headmaster could almost swear he saw ice crystals on the floor around Harry's booted feet. _Boots?_ He thought inanely. _He wasn't wearing boots in the Ministry, I'm sure of it._ Eventually, he nodded decisively and bent down to examine the memory.

_The world was burning, or so Dumbledore thought at first glance. Then the hellish vision resolved itself into green flames, witchfire, he suspected, advancing down a corridor in the Ministry, the Auror Corps' headquarters, setting the very stone aflame. More magical infernos burned inside the offices, the doorways limned in the green glow. At the end of the corridor, a squad of grim-faced Aurors guarded a group of Ministry workers trying desperately to pierce the anti-Apparition wards the attackers had set up. Turning, Dumbledore got his first look at those same attacking forces._

_There, striding down the Ministry hallway without a care in the world, was Lord Voldemort. His snakelike visage was twisted into a cruel sneer and the wand in his hand sent spell after spell into Aurors, Ministry workers, and civilians alike. Behind him, in the Atrium, a battle was underway, Death Eaters and an assortment of inhuman allies - Vampires, Inferi, and what looked like a shrunken giant all caught Dumbledore's eye - fought against everything the combined forces of the Light could muster. They seemed to be winning; every second saw more Dark wizards Apparating or Portkeying in, and more of their allies arriving through the fireplaces or various other means. The Light was being pushed back - here and there, clusters of crimson Auror robes signified resistance, but groups of black-garbed Death Eaters swarmed over and around them like a great river sweeping away pebbles. The constant spellfire in the area gave Voldemort's inhuman features an unholy cast, as though he'd left what little humanity remained to him behind and traded it for demonic power._

_Which, judging by the ease with which he dispatched target after target, might not be far from the truth. As the last of the Aurors protecting the cursebreakers fell, his spine crushed to powder by a blue curse Dumbledore didn't recognize, a Death Eater appeared at Voldemort's elbow._

"_My Lord." A short bow, and the man straightened back up, a thin smile visible beneath his bone-whte mask. Voldemort turned, a triumphant expression on his face._

"_Ah, Lucius. How goes the fight?" Without looking, the Dark Lord sent a conjured spear thudding into one of the cursebreakers still alive at the end of the corridor. It pinned him to the wall, and the man gurgled incoherently as blood filled his lungs.  
_

"_The Ministry is yours, Lord, and with it Britain."_

_Dumbledore missed Voldemort's reply, so shocked was he. How had Voldemort defeated the massed forces of the Ministry and the Order? Even at the height of his power, he had remained in the shadows. Voldemort had preferred to attack where his foes were weak and he was strong: with overwhelming force arriving at their homes in the dead of night, for example. Effective - it spread fear, and that fear had done more for Voldemort than naything else in the first war.  
_

"_There is, however, one slight problem." The Death Eater – Lord Malfoy, Dumbledore supposed – said with a small frown._

"_Lucius, not even the return of that fool Dumbledore could spoil my mood today. What is it?"_

"_You won't get to enjoy your victory long." And with that, Malfoy removed his mask just as the last of the Polyjuice faded, the sneering face of the Pureblood lord replaced by the haunted, war-weary features of Harry Potter. He brought up his wand and said quietly, almost sadly, "Avada Kedavra." Lord Voldemort fell to the floor, a look of surprise frozen on his reptilian features. Head bowed, as if exhausted, Harry turned and touched a Portkey hanging from his neck. The Boy-Who-Lived vanished just as the first Death Eater curse reached his position._

_Abruptly, the scene shifted. No longer was the Ministry burning around Dumbledore. Instead, he stood in a tomb, observing a shrouded body on a marble slab. It was a dark room, corridors – tunnels? Dumbledore had no idea where this scene was taking place. – branching off in all directions. Harry Potter flashed into existence near the slab, and immediately fell to his knees, head bowed, eyes closed. His voice was barely a whisper, but Dumbledore caught the words even so._

"_It's all over. Voldemort's gone. So are you, so's everyone else here, in this monument to all my failures. I'm sick, Gin, sick in mind and body. I failed. Everyone I've ever cared for, everyone I've ever loved…_

"_No excuses. If I'd trained harder, if the DA'd had some real discipline the last two years, if I'd just been there for you all…" A single sob, shockingly loud in the quiet grave._

"_Damn him, Gin. Voldemort killed you, and our family, and all the others, but he let it happen. Dumbledore and his damned "Greater Good," his precious sentimentality, his cursed unshakable belief in his own omniscience let him. We wasted six years, Gin. In three I learned enough to fight Voldemort to a standstill. In six I could have learned enough to kill him before you died. I could have saved everyone. I'd do anything to have you here, love. I'd give anything. Anything." More sobs. Dumbledore's face bore an expression of horror as he realized just what his insistence that Harry Potter have a normal childhood had done. Minerva had been right after all. Raised by Muggles, left to his own devices at Hogwarts,left unprepared for his destiny… Dumbledore had ignored the Prophecy he'd put so much faith in._

"_We hear you, young one…" Harry's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as his wand rose to point in the direction of the sound. It had been an eerie voice that spoke, like three people speaking in perfect harmony at entirely different pitches. The very sound prompted a sense of impending doom.  
_

"_We hear the pain, we see the anguish, we feel the loss…" Both Dumbledore and Harry spun in a different direction, fear evident on both their faces._

"_We remember the future and predict the past. We can only guess at the present, but have discovered the last."_

"_Last of what?" Harry demanded, his wand now sending a beam of light into the pressing darkness._

"_The last cause in the chain. The vergence between Fate and accident. We can help you." From the black tunnel mouth to Harry's right, three black-robed figures emerged. They halted on the opposite side of the marble slab, the middle one resting a gloved hand on the smooth stone._

"_And who are you?" Harry demanded, a blue curse forming at the tip of his wand._

_"We are Darkness, and Power, and Magic, and anything else we must be to insure that what has happened does not come to pass." They were ominous, ominous words that the three-part voice spoke. Dumbledore could feel the energy of Fate hanging heavy on every syllable. Something very important was about to happen, but God alone knew what.  
_

_"Explain yourself." The curse was still at Harry's wandtip, ready to be realeased at a moment's notice, but it was duller than it had been, and steadily shrinking._

_"The Future, and the Darkness of Uncertainty. The Past, and the Darkness of Deception. The Present, and the Darkness of Concealment. Time is not easily penetrated by the Light of Knowledge, and it is into Time that you must walk, Harry Potter. What has happened must not come to pass."_

_"So you've mentioned."_

_"What would you do to save your friends, Harry Potter? Would you risk defeat again? Would you undo your victory?"_

_Harry closed his eyes, and a melancholy smile played across his lips.  
_

_ "He either fears his fate too much,  
_

_ Or his desserts are small,_

_ Who will not put it to the touch,  
_

_ To win or lose it all."  
_

"_Good." And with that, the three cloaked figures each raised their arms, robes falling back to reveal gleaming white bone in place of flesh. A wave of indescribable power flowed from them, and Dumbledore was ejected from the Pensieve._

He came to on the floor, while Harry perched on his desk and regarded him with a cold expression. Dumbledore licked his dry lips, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"What… what…" He gave up. The images flying through his mind were too incredible for words.

"That is the question, isn't it? What happened, and why, and when and where and who. All the usual. Allow me to start from the beginning of my time in this reality. It won't take long, as I arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Odd, really… I wanted to arrive in first year. Now, consider. The three skeletons in my closet… tomb, rather, were not quite normal, as I'm sure you noticed. They sent me back to try again. You see, I couldn't live with myself in that reality. You didn't see the full extend of the war," _but I did_, accused the emerald eyes, "so you can't fully appreciate the level of carnage you were indirectly responsible for. Hogwarts attacked, all the remaining students dead, – All of them, Dumbledore, hundreds of children tortured and killed – the Muggles dying in their tens of thousands, Dementors loose, vampires feeding on the streets of Hogsmeade, Death Eaters parading in full daylight across the ruins of the castle… You saw the memory." Dumbledore nodded dumbly.

"They offered me a way out. A way to fix all my mistakes, and all of yours besides. A way to ensure that the deaths that have already happened are not followed by more. I took it.

"That's why and how I'm here. You've seen the where, I am the who, and the when is now. Know that I _will not_ tolerate interference from you or your Order in this. My friends will not die this time, but my enemies, whoever they may be, most assuredly will. And I will make it my business to see that they do not die quickly.

"That I promise you."

**Office of the Potter Estate Manager**

**Gringotts Wizarding Bank**

**London, England  
**

"Lord Potter to see Master Griphook." The minor goblin functionary spoke his piece in a quiet, efficient voice, then got out of the way. Harry liked goblins – they were nothing if not efficient. Also slightly unsettling and highly vindictive, but he could empathize with those traits as well. The waiting room he currently sat in brought back memories of the last time he'd been here, three years ago… or two years from now, depending on which timeline one used. Sighing softly, the Boy-Who-Lived closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him.

"_Lord Potter, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I confess I had expected to see you almost two years ago." Griphook, his Estate Master according to the teller goblin he'd asked for directions, smiled thinly. It was a disturbing expression, all pointed teeth and no mirth._

"_I'm sorry?"_

"_After Lord Black died, you became Head of your family. It is customary for a new Head to take an interest in his or her properties, or at least to make sure all is in order." There was a slight sense of accusation to the last few words._

"_I…see. Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may have caused."_

"_Certainly, Lord Potter. Now, your holdings are quite extensive, both in land and gold. As of the last compounding of interest, that is to say the first of the month, there were 250 million, 314 thousand galleons in the Potter vaults, as well as slightly more than 500 million in the Black vaults to which you have been named heir."_

"_The Black vaults? Wouldn't those go to… Tonks, I suppose, or someone actually in the Black family?"_

"_No, Lord Potter. Miss Tonks was, as you may be aware, expelled from the family and never reinstated, while the rest of the Blacks, Lady Malfoy and Madame Lestrange, are barred from inheritance due to their status as convicted criminals. You were named as the prime beneficiary of the late Lord Black's will." Harry wanted to ask Griphook to call him by his name, rather than a title he'd only just discovered he had, but realized that the goblin on the other side of the desk wouldn't appreciate his effort._

"_Very well. You mentioned properties, I believe?" Harry spoke numbly, slightly shocked by the amount of money he had on hand._

"_Indeed. The Black house in Grimmauld Place I believe you are familiar with, but there are also Black family properties in Cambridgeshire and near Brighton. The Potter family was given a castle and accompanying lands by William the Conqueror for services rendered during the Battle of Hastings – I believe your distant ancestor saved his life with a well-timed Shield Charm. The cottage in Godric's Hollow was regrettably destroyed, and has not been rebuild, though the land remains Potter property. Additionally, both the Black and Potter lines carry seats on the Wizengamot and on the Hogwarts Board of Directors."_

Hermione had been the one to point out that, as Lord of two noble houses, Harry could have done a great deal of good on the political side of the war, not just as one the Order's field commanders. Unfortunately, by the time she'd realized this (only three months before her death) the Ministry had become all but useless and the Wizengamot had ceased to meet. Yet another wasted opportunity in a long, _long_ list of them. All traceable to Albus Dumbledore's seemingly pathological fear of honesty. Damn the man and his "Greater Good."

"Lord Potter, Master Griphook will see you now." The familiar beginning brought a slight smile to Harry's face.

"Very well. Lead on." The straight, human-designed corridors of Gringotts' upper floors soon gave way to the cramped, rocky tunnels the goblins favored. Harry looked around, intrigued – his first "first meeting" with his account manager had taken place in the human-friendly areas, and he was enjoying seeing something new. Eventually, the goblin he was following took him to a secluded chamber and left him at the door with a slight bow. Blinking twice in quick succession, as much expression of uncertainty as Harry had allowed himself for years, he stepped through the door.

Within, Griphook sat behind a large stone desk piled high with parchment and, Harry was surprised to see, paper of the Muggle variety. As the Boy-Who-Lived entered, he rose and bowed fluidly, then sat back down an steepled his long fingers.

"Lord Potter."

"Master Griphook. A pleasure to meet you again."

"I am surprised you remembered our previous meeting. Humans are not usually so considerate."I

"Not at all. It would set a poor precedent to not remember having met my own Estate Master!" Harry said jovially, trying for a bit of humor. It didn't work; he suspected that the goblin sense of humor simply didn't translate well to circumstances not involving blood and violence.

"Quite. Have you by any chance looked into your inheritance, Lord Potter?"

"I have indeed, Master Griphook. I'm quite familiar with the properties and gold left me. I hoped to not waste any more of your time than absolutely necessary."

"In that case, know that Gringotts hereby recognizes your ascendance to the titles of Lord Potter and Lord Black, and to the dignities due them. So say I, Estate Master Griphook, acting for the Council of Elders, the Wizengamot, and the Ministry of Magic."

"I beg your pardon?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, Lord Potter, the Purebloods have riddled the law with loopholes and special privelieges. One of these is the Right of Emancipation, which states that the heir to a noble house may declare him or herself an adult after assuming any titles to which he or she may be entitled." A hint of a slight, tooth-filled smile. The implications of this development were… astounding, to say the least.

"Master Griphook, please allow me to check my understanding of the situation."

"Certainly, Lord Potter."

"As I understand the current situation," and here Harry's voice turned icy with rage, "I am now in a position to assume all the rights, duties, and privileges due a noble Lord, including unrestricted use of magic?"

"You will not be able to personally fill your seats on the Wizengamot or the Board of Directors until your 21st year, but largely, yes." There was definitely a smirk on Griphook's face, albeit one vindictive enough to make Harry wonder what exactly Albus Dumbledore had done to the goblins, and when.

"Master Griphook, please accept the sincere thanks of both myself and Houses Potter and Black. You have done more for the wizarding world than you know, and it would be an honor to assist you in any way I can." Harry knew he was being a bit ridiculous – His initial plan to keep a low profile in this timeline was rapidly disintegrating, as he realized the full power of his position. He also knew that the manner of speech he'd adopted after Hogwarts fell – formal, unemotional, and direct – was nothing at all like the one his fifteen-year-old self had used. At this moment, however, he didn't care. It was with a distinct sense of optimism that he bade farewell to Griphook, bowing deeply on the way out, and made his way back to Diagon Alley, heading for the Apparition point and St. Mungo's.

**Secure Ward**

**St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

**London, England  
**

It wasn't precisely the first time Harry had been here, standing in the high-security ward of St. Mungo's, watching his friends recover from injuries sustained on his behalf. More like the seventeenth, if memory served.

Nonetheless, seeing everyone peacefully sleeping under the influence of the Dreamless Sleep potion he'd spotted on their charts tore at his conscience. Neville, recovering from exposure to the Cruciatus Curse as well as a Rupturing Curse, Hermione, her lungs devastated by the same Rupturing Curse, Ron, struck by some kind of magical creature, Ginny, her ankle shattered. Luna was recovering at home, having not sustained any serious injuries.

Ginny. She had the least serious of the injuries, it was true, and she'd likely be home by the next day, but Harry was still wracked by guilt, seeing her there. She was fourteen, and had no business fighting… Especially for him. He knew perfectly well what the reason she'd come along was, and it sickened him to know that her infatuation with th Boy-Who-Lived had caused her such pain.

A slight smile. Harry remembered a conversation they'd had on the banks of the River Cam, the day before Ginny was to return to Hogwarts for her sixth, and ultimately final year.

_Sunlight filtering down through the lush green trees seemed to set Ginny's hair on fire. He paused to admire the effect, smiling at the young woman who had, until a few months ago, been his girlfriend. _

"_You know I love you, right?"_

"_Yeah, I know." She leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing in a mix of contentment and misery. "And I understand why we both have to pretend, but…"_

"_I'm so sorry, Gin…" She smiled up at him, the expression lighting up her face._

"_It's not fair that you have to do this, but I know you can. And when Voldemort's gone, I'll be waiting. I love you, Harry."_

"_Love you too, Gin." _

Harry found himself seated on Ginny's bed, stroking her flame-colored hair away from the neck he so wanted to kiss. He missed the closeness they'd had, but knew all too well that right now Ginny didn't really know him. She still held to her childhood fantasy of the Boy-Who-Lived.

_Well,_ reasoned Harry, _that's something I can fix._

Standing, he conjured a piece of parchment and some ink, then grabbed a quill from the desk by Ginny's bed. Writing quickly, he explained to his friends that he was dreadfully sorry he couldn't be there when they woke, hoped that they were doing well, and would visit as soon as humanly possible, signing it Harry Potter, Lord of Houses Potter and Black. That done, he gave it to the floor nurse and asked her politely to pass it along to his friends when the woke.

**Potter Castle**

**Cambridgeshire, England**

Seeing his ancestral home in pristine condition, minus the refugee camp on the lawn and the copious spell damage it had acquired over years of war was quite a shock. Indeed, regarding the elegant expanse of green on both sides of the wide drive leading up to the stony fortifications of the gatehouse, Harry found it oddly hard to breath. So much beauty had been – he refused to say 'would be' –destroyed at his orders, to strengthen the defenses or to provide for those made homeless by their allegiance to him.

Shrugging the thought away, he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled onto the drive. As he crossed onto the ancestral Potter lands, the wards sapped at his magic – after a decade and a half without input, they were in desperate need of power.

"Dobby! Come here, please." A house needed a house elf just as much as a house elf needed a house, and Harry had one of each. Simply math, really…

"The Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir is calling Dobby?" The odd creature appeared with a sharp crack that had Harry glancing sharply around, before looking down at Dobby sheepishly.

"Sorry, I've been a bit jumpy lately." And if that wasn't the understatement of the century, Harry didn't know what was. "In any case, how are you enjoying working at Hogwarts?"

"Dobby is liking it fine, Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir. But he would prefer to work for Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir, Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir." If flattery could get one places, Dobby would be welcome anywhere he wanted to be. Laughing softly, Harry told him so.

"Flattey will get you everywhere, Dobby. How'd you like to be this house's elf?"

"Dobby would like that very much, Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir." "Excellent. Listen, I don't know what state the house is in after all this time," Not precisely true, but Dobby didn't need to know that. "So could you look into it, give the place a general cleaning if it's not too dusty, and tell me if it is? I'm sure I can find more elves if it's necessary."

"Yes, Great Wiza-"

"And Dobby, could you please shorten that a bit? At least in company; we've got to uphold House Potter's and House Black's reputations here. You understand?" Dobby nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, Lord Potter." Harry's smile matched Dobby's.

"Excellent. You're a wonderful elf, Dobby, and don't let anyone tell you different." Grinning brightly enough to light a candle at ten paces, Dobby cracked away, presumably to begin his inventory of the house. Harry himself stood silently for a moment, considering the view before him, then slid his hands back into his pockets and strode purposefully towards the house. There were some rooms Dobby wouldn't be able to get into, and there were items inside them that he would need very shortly. This war had been fought with riddles and lies so far, but as a general rule, one did not allow the enemy to dictate terms of engagement. Lord Voldemort preferred to fight from the shadows, and that being the case, Lord Potter was going to drag every aspect of the mad wizard's campaign into the light.

Deep beneath the castle, the Lord of Houses Potter and Black paused before a fairly unremarkable door. Marked with a Roman numeral 'II,' there was nothing to recommend the door as special. This was, of course, the entire point: Harry was standing in front of the door to one of the few truly secret rooms in the expansive castle that had housed generations of his family. It was charmed to be invisible to all but the Head of House or his representative, and a good thing it was, for contained within the room were all the things Harry would need to quash the Death Eater insurrection like the nuisance it still was, and prevent it from growing to the cataclysmic proportions it had reached in his original timeline. Smirking slightly, Harry considered what his old - or rather, current - schoolmate Draco Malfoy would have thought of the contents. Surely, he could almost imagine the petty man saying, such an important room must contain spells of untold power, or a magical weapon untouched since the dawn of time!

Not quite. Opening the door, Harry scooped a small box from its rack on the wall, opened the lid, and removed a shiny, metallic object. Pointed at one end and flat at the other, the device was layered with shield penetration charms, duplication charms, and a simple transfiguration that would allow it to bite through even the hardest armor. It was a cartridge, made to fit the Enfield rifles stacked against the far wall. Relics of Magical Britain's imperial adventures, the weapons were almost unbreakable, difficult to jam, resistant to magic, and plentiful enough to equip a regiment. If Lord Voldemort wanted a war, Lord Potter would give him one.

And like many of Britain's wars, this one would be resolved by the Law of the .303.

They were simple, those weapons, but that was all to the good. The same simplicity had helped cover their wielders in glory, had brought honor and renown to the Potter lords who'd commanded them, had created an Empire on which the sun had not set... and would do so again. Voldemort's Death Eaters were powerful, it was true, with decades of training and dueling experience for the best of them. Even the worst were a cut above the average wizarding populace. But they were not disciplined, and they were not interested in cooperation. They were not soldiers, they were warriors. But as the Zulus and their war-mages had learned at Rorke's Drift, one's individual valor and the strength of one's spells did not matter overmuch when measured against a disciplined firing line. No, the Death Eaters would fall. They would fall, and they would fail, and after celebrating their deaths Harry would join his still-living friends and live the life he'd always wanted, and God help anyone who stood in his way.

**Diagon Alley**

**London, England**

It was raining over London. Not unusual by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly appropriate for Harry's current mood - cold, with a hint of a storm brewing. More or less what it had been since everything fell apart in the original timeline. Leaning against a pillar of Gringott's, Harry closed his eyes and shook his head to clear the memories that had been threatening to slip through the walls of his self-control since he'd come back to 1996. When he opened them again, his eyes - blue, now, due to the disguise he'd adopted before leaving Potter Manor - swept over the crowd gathered around a flyer pasted to the wall of Eyelop's Owl Emporium. It was one of his own, stuck there by a frantic Dobby in the wee hours of the morning. A call to the good and just; a reminder that there were three sides to the coming war, and that Evil and Apathy were unsafe patrons. From the tenor of the crowd, Harry thought he'd done a good job.

"Hey, mate, have a look at this!" This from a portly, middle-aged man to Harry's left. He was gesturing at the poster, and almost gave Harry's sleeve a tug, before a particularly cold glance convinced him otherwise.

"And just what is 'this,' Mr…?" Harry prided himself on his ability to slip effortlessly between casual and aristocratic modes of behavior. It seemed he hadn't lost his touch.

"Scotts, sir, William Scotts. The young Lord Potter's raising a regiment, says he's had enough of fighting You-Know-Who in the shadows. Wants it done out in the open, where everyone can see and know what's going on. Good lad, he is."

"For Merlin's sake, man, use his _name._ It's not as if saying 'Voldemort' will summon him up out of thin air. And what's this about a regiment?"

"Well, sir, you'll know about raising regiments, being a gentleman and all. Any as can pay can raise one, and command it against the Crown's enemies. Looks as though Her Majesty finally declared You-Know-Who an Enemy of the Crown. Sorry, sir, it's an habit." This last as an apology for using Lord Voldemort's ridiculous sobriquet, at which Harry had raised an eyebrow disapprovingly.

The Queen, Harry had been surprised to learn almost three years after Ginny's death in his original time, still maintained vast power in the wizarding world. Long stripped of non-ceremonial power in the Muggle world, she was still the absolute arbiter of justice for wizards, with the Ministry ruling in her stead. Apparently, they had not seen fit to inform Her Majesty that Voldemort was a problem, severely limiting the steps that could be taken against him. Only in a state of war could the magical military be called up, but each successive Minister for Magic had been more concerned with his approval ratings than the death toll. Politicians. They almost deserved the fate they'd gotten.

"Is that so… Well, I shall have to congratulate Lord Potter on his initiative. It's about time someone did something about that damned terrorist." Harry strode down the white marble steps of the bank, cloak swirling rather spectacularly around him. He smirked slightly, remembering when Snape had 'taught' him how to do that - shortly before his death, as the secret had been discovered, quite accidentally, while Harry probed the treacherous, absurdly petty man's mind for the details of his betrayal. Second betrayal, really - It still drove Harry to the brink of murderous rage to think that Dumbledore felt it appropriate to try and force him to work with his parents' executioner. Still, there was something to be said for serving revenge up cold, and close to a decade of forced association had give Harry plenty of time to chill his.

Similar crowds were gathered around posters on the walls of Flourish and Blotts, Ollivander's and the apothecary Harry could never remember the name of. From the sounds of things, he wouldn't have trouble filling his regiment.**  
**

**Potter Castle**

**Cambridgeshire, England**

"Good afternoon." The speaker, a tall, thin man with ice-cold brown eyes currently shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, addressed the crowd of potential recruits strewn across Harry's front lawn. Dressed in a brown uniform with only a major's insignia for decoration, he cut a distinctly intimidating figure, especially with his cloak fluttering lightly in the slight breeze. Variations of 'Good afternoon,' 'Hello there,' and 'Who might you be' echoed back from the assembled wizards.

"The proper response is, 'Good afternoon, Sir!' My name is Quick, Major Thomas Quick, and I am this regiment's operational commander. Lord Potter has asked me to see that you lot become something resembling soldiers. I have two decades' experience leading and training soldiers, both privately and on behalf of Her Majesty's government. For the past three years, I have commanded the a company of mercenaries in the Americas, who will be assisting me in your training. Now, straighten up - ten-shun!" The last was delivered with such a crack of command that nearly the entire group snapped to something resembling attention.

"That's better. Now, it is vitally important that you all understand one thing: Discipline is the only thing that separates the men and women of this regiment, Lord Potter's Own Regiment of Foot, from the enemy. You may expect retribution for any offense, however slight, to be swift and entirely out of proportion to what you may think you deserve. However, in exchange for your obedience, I will make you the best unit Her Majesty's Army has seen in a century. Do I make myself clear?"

The chorus of "Yes, Sir" was more-or-less in unison, and delivered at a volume that made Quick smirk slightly. When Lord Potter had approached him about training his new regiment, the mercenary leader had been skeptical, but these shopkeepers, housewives, and Ministry workers seemed almost competent. With proper weapons and Quick's firm hand guiding their training, he had no doubt that Potter's troops would become more than a match for the Death Eaters.

"Now, then, form squads - groups of eight - and follow the orders of the sergeants who will present themselves to complete squads. You will the march behind the house, where you will receive your uniforms and equipment. Dismissed!" While the initial scramble for squadmates was a disaster, the bellows of Quick's men soon sorted things out, and the new troops headed to the barracks Harry had set up behind his house. It was only a flimsy, temporary conjuration, but more permanent quarters were being constructed on one of Harry's properties, and of course the officers - Quick's men all - were snug and dry in the manor, They'd be introduced to their new command tomorrow.

"Everything all right, Major?" This from Harry, who'd removed the invisibility cloak that had allowed him to observe the introductions in peace.

"Quite well, Colonel. They're a likely-looking bunch, I'll say that - much better than what I had to work with in our erstwhile colonies. Give me a month, and you can take them out - two months for battle, I'd say."

"Thanks awfully, then. I'll join you and the officers for dinner."

"Sir."

And with that, Harry Disapparated, on to the next errand on his long, long list for the day.


End file.
